Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  "I understand that. Was this rifle long and heavy?"

  "If it was a rifle, it was a long and heavy rifle."

  "Like a hunting rifle, with a scope."

  "That's right," Jack said.

  "Okay, worst-case scenario. It's a long, accurate, hunting rifle with a scope. What is Khalil going to do with it?"

  "The feeling is that this was a backup in the event that Wiggins was not at home. In other words, Khalil was prepared to hunt Wiggins as he camped in the woods."

  "Really?"

  "It's a theory. You have another theory?"

  "Not at the moment. But I'm picturing Chip and his babe in the woods, camping out, and I'm wondering why Khalil, with new hiking duds, doesn't just go up to them and share a cup of coffee around the campfire, then casually mention that he's there to kill Chip and tell him why before he puts a forty caliber slug in his head. Capisce?"

  Jack let a few seconds go by, then said, "Wiggins, as it turns out, was camping with about a dozen friends, so Khalil—"

  "Doesn't wash, Jack. Khalil would do whatever he had to do to look Chip Wiggins in the eye before he killed him."

  "Maybe. Okay, the other theory, which may make more sense, is that if this package contained a rifle, the rifle is to be used to help Khalil make his escape. For instance, if he had to take out a border patrol guy at the Mexican border, or if he got chased on the sea by a Coast Guard cutter. Something like that. He wants a long-range weapon for any situation that may arise during his escape from the U.S." Jack added, "He needed an accomplice anyway—Rahman—so why not have Rahman deliver a rifle along with whatever else he delivered? Rifles are easy to buy."

  "They're not easy to hide."

  "They can be broken down. I mean, we are not discounting the possibility that Asad Khalil has a sniper rifle and that he intends to kill someone, who he would have trouble getting within pistol range of. But it really doesn't fit his stated mission or his MO. You said so yourself. Up close and personal."

  "Right. Actually, I think there was a patio furniture set in that box. You ever see how they pack that cheap shit in the discount stores? Ten-piece patio furniture set in a box no bigger than a shirt box. Six chairs, a table, umbrella, and two chaise-longes made in Taiwan. Put Slot A into Slot B. Okay, see you in D.C."

  "Right. We'll make the travel arrangements here. I'll fax the flight info to the L.A. office. Press conference is at five P.M. at J. Edgar. I know John enjoyed his last visit there. And again, congratulations to both of you on a fine job and on your engagement. You set a date yet?"

  Kate replied, "June."

  "Good. Short engagements are best. I hope I'm invited."

  "Of course you are," Kate assured him.

  I hit the Disconnect button.

  Kate and I sat silently for a minute, then she said to me, "I'm concerned about that rifle."

  "And well you should be."

  "I mean . . . I'm not the nervous type, but he could be gunning for us."

  "Possibly. You want to borrow the Little Italy T-shirts again?"

  "The what?"

  "Bulletproof vests."

  She laughed. "You have a way with words."

  Anyway, we went back into the common area and had an informal stand-up meeting with the six people there, including Juan, Edie, and Kim. We drank some coffee, and Edie told us, "We're getting Mr. Rahman back from L.A. in about half an hour. We're going to take him out to look for the canyon where he took Khalil to drop that bag."

  I nodded. Something about that bothered me, too. I realized that Khalil had to kill time at that early morning hour before the stores opened or whatever, but he really could have had Rahman just take him to a cheap motel. Why did he drive an hour north up the coast highway and ditch the bag?

  Anyway, I didn't ask Cindy for the bulletproof vests and neither did Kate. I mean, all we were going to do today was drive around L.A. On the other hand, that may have been reason enough to have bulletproof vests. New York joke.

  But Cindy did give us two nice overnight canvas bags with big FBI logos on them as souvenirs of our visit, and perhaps as a way of saying, "We don't want to see you again." But maybe I was projecting.

  So, Kate and I put our few toiletries in our bags, and we were ready to go to the Los Angeles office. We discovered that there was no helicopter available, which is sometimes a tip-off that your stock is slipping. However, there was a car available, sans driver, and Cindy gave us the keys. Kate assured her that she knew the way. California people are really nice.

  So, we all shook hands and promised to stay in touch, and we were invited back anytime, to which I replied, "We'll be back day after tomorrow." This had the same effect as if I'd broken wind.

  Anyway, we left, found the blue government Ford Crown Victoria in the lot, and Kate slipped behind the wheel.

  She seemed very excited about driving in California again, and informed me we'd take the scenic coast road to Santa Monica, via Santa Santa, then Las Santa Santos, then some other Santas. I didn't really give a rat's ass, but if she was happy, then I was happy. Right?

  CHAPTER 51

  We drove down this coastal highway, through Santa Oxnard, and south toward the City of Angels. The water was on our right, mountains to our left. Blue skies, blue water, blue car, Kate's blue eyes. Perfect.

  Kate said it was about an hour's drive to the FBI field office on Wilshire Boulevard, near the UCLA campus in West Hollywood, and also near Beverly Hills.

  I asked her, "Why isn't the office downtown? Is there a downtown?"

  "There is, but the FBI seems to prefer certain neighborhoods over others."

  "Like expensive, white, non-inner city neighborhoods."

  "Sometimes. That's why I don't like lower Manhattan. It's incredibly congested."

  "It's incredibly alive and interesting. I'm going to take you to Fraunces Tavern. You know, where Washington bid farewell to his officers. He got out on three-quarter disability."

  "And went to live in Virginia. He couldn't stand the congestion."

  So, we did the California-New York thing for a while as Kate drove. Then she asked me, "Are you happy?"

  "Beyond happy."

  "Good. You look less panicky."

  "I have surrendered to the light." I said, "Tell me about the L.A. office. What did you do there?"

  "It was an interesting assignment. It's the third largest field office in the country. About six hundred agents. Los Angeles is the bank robbery capital of the country. We had close to three thousand bank robberies a year, and—" "Three thousand?"

  "Yes. Mostly druggies. Small-time cash snatches. There are hundreds of small branch offices in L.A., plus there are all these freeways, so the robbers can make easy escapes. In New York, the robber would be sitting in a taxi for half an hour at a stop light. Anyway, this was more of a nuisance than anything else. Very few people got hurt. I was actually in my bank branch office once when it was getting robbed." "How much did you get?"

  She laughed. "I didn't get anything, but the perp got ten to twenty."

  "You collared him?" "I did."

  "Tell me about it."

  "No big deal. The guy was ahead of me in line, he passes a note to the teller, and she gets all nervous, so I knew what was coming down. She fills a bag with money, the guy turns to leave, and finds himself staring at my gun. It's a stupid crime. Small money, big Federal rap, and between the FBI and the police, we solved over seventy-five percent of the bank robberies."

  We chatted about Kate's two years in L.A., and she said, "Also, it's the only field office in the country with two full-time media representatives. We got lots of high-profile cases that needed media fixes. Lots of celebrity stalker cases. I met a few movie stars, and once I had to live in this star's mansion and travel with him for a few weeks because someone had threatened his life, and it looked like a serious threat. Then there were the Asian organized crime syndicates. The only shoot-out I ever had was with a bunch of Korean smugglers. Those guys are tough cookies. But w
e have some Korean-Americans in the office who have penetrated the syndicates. Am I boring you?"

  "No. This is more interesting than the X-Files. Who was the movie star?"

  "Are you jealous?"

  "Not at all." Maybe a little.

  "It was some old guy. Pushing fifty." She laughed.

  Why was I not having fun yet? Anyway, it appeared that Kate Mayfield was not the naive hick I thought she was. She'd been around the dark side of American life, and though she hadn't seen what I'd seen in twenty years on the job in New York, she'd seen more than your average Wendy Wasp from Wichita. In any case, I had the feeling that we had a lot of history to learn from each other. I was glad she didn't ask me about my sexual history because we'd be in Rio de Janeiro before I was finished. Just kidding.

  All in all, it was a pleasant drive, she knew her way around, and before long we found ourselves on Wilshire Boulevard. Kate pulled into the big parking lot of a twenty-story, white office building, complete with flowers and palm trees. There's something about palm trees that makes me think nothing serious or deep is going on in the vicinity. I asked her, "Did you ever get involved with any Mideastern terrorism?"

  "Not personally. There's not much of that here. I think they have one Mideast specialist." She added, "Now they have two more."

  "Yeah. Right. You maybe. I don't know beans about Mideast terrorism."

  She pulled the car into an empty space and shut the engine. "They think you do. You're on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, Mideast section."

  "Right. I forgot."

  So, we got out of the car, walked into the building, and took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor.

  The FBI had the whole floor, plus some other floors that they shared with other Justice Department agencies.

  To make a long story short, the prodigal daughter had returned, there were hugs and kisses all around, and I noticed that the women seemed as happy to see Kate as were the men. This is a good sign, according to my ex, who explained it all to me once. I wish I'd been listening.

  Anyway, we made the rounds of the offices, and I pumped a lot of hands and smiled so much my face hurt. I had the impression I was being shown off by . . . by my . . . fiancée. There, I said it. Actually, however, Kate didn't make any announcements along those lines.

  Somewhere in this labyrinth of corridors, cubicles, cubby holes, and offices lurked a lover or two or maybe three, and I tried to spot the little shit or shits, but I wasn't getting any signals. I'm good at spotting people who are trying to fuck me, but not very good at spotting people who are, or have, fucked one another. To this day, I'm not sure if my wife was screwing her boss, for instance. They do travel a lot on business, but . . . it doesn't matter anymore, and it didn't matter then.

  As my good luck would have it, the fellow I'd spoken to here on the telephone the other day, Mr. Sturgis, Deputy Agent in Charge of something, wanted to meet me, so we were escorted into his office.

  Mr. Sturgis came around his desk and extended his hand, which I took as we exchanged greetings. His first name was Doug, and he wanted me to call him that. What else would I call him? Claude?

  Anyway, Doug was a handsome gent, about my age, tan and fit, and well dressed. He looked at Kate, and they shook hands. He said, "Good to see you, Kate."

  She replied, "It's nice to be back."

  Bingo! This was the guy. I could tell by the way they looked at each other for a brief second. I think.

  Anyway, there are many forms of hell on earth, but the most exquisitely hellish is going someplace where your spouse or lover knows everyone, and you know no one. Office parties, class reunions, stuff like that. And, of course, you're trying to figure out who had carnal knowledge of your mate, if for no other reason than to see if he or she at least had good taste and wasn't fucking the class clown or the office idiot. Anyway, Sturgis offered us seats and we sat, though I wanted out of there. He said to me, "You're exactly as I pictured you on the phone."

  "You, too."

  We left that alone and got on to business. Sturgis rambled on a bit, and I noticed that he had dandruff and small hands. Men with small hands often have small dicks. It's a fact.

  He tried to be pleasant, but I was not. Finally, he sensed my mood and stood. Kate and I stood. He said, "Again, we thank you for your good work and your expertise in this matter. I can't say I'm confident that we'll apprehend this individual, but at least we've got him on the run, and he'll cause no further problems."

  "I wouldn't bet on that," I said.

  "Well, Mr. Corey, a man on the run can be a desperate man, but Asad Khalil is not a common criminal. He's a professional. All he wants now is to escape and not draw any further attention to himself."

  "He is a criminal, common or otherwise, and criminals do criminal things."

  "Good point," he said dismissively. "We'll keep that in mind."

  I thought I should tell this idiot to go fuck himself, but he already knew what I was thinking.

  He said to Kate, "If you ever want to come back, put in for it, and I'll do all I can to see that it's done."

  "That's very nice of you, Doug."

  Barf.

  Kate gave him a card and said, "My cell phone number is on there. Please have someone call me if anything develops. We're just taking some time off to sightsee. John's never been to L.A. We're taking the red-eye out tonight."

  "I'll call you the minute anything develops. If you'd like, I'll give you a call later just to keep you up-to-date."

  "I would appreciate that."

  Barf.

  They shook hands and bid adieu.

  I forgot to shake hands on my way out, and Kate caught up to me in the corridor.

  She informed me, "You were rude to him."

  "I was not."

  "You were. You were being so charming to everyone, then you go and get nasty with a supervisor."

  "I wasn't nasty. And I don't like supervisors." I added, "He pissed me off on the phone."

  She dropped the subject, perhaps because she knew where it was headed. Of course, I may have been totally wrong about any amorous connections between Mr. Douglas Pindick and Kate Mayfield, but what if I weren't and what if I'd been all nice and smiley to Sturgis while he was thinking about the last time he'd screwed Kate Mayfield? Boy, what a fool I'd be. Better to play it safe and be nasty.

  Anyway, as we walked down the corridor, it occurred to me that being in love had a lot of drawbacks.

  Kate stopped by the commo room and got our flight information. She informed me, "United Flight Two-Zero-Four, leaves LAX at eleven-fifty-nine p.m., arrives Washington Dulles at seven-forty-eight A.M. Two Business Class reservations confirmed. We'll be met at Dulles."

  "Then what?"

  "It doesn't say."

  "Maybe I have time to complain to my Congressman."

  "About what?"

  "About being off the job for a stupid press conference."

  "I don't think a Congressman can relate to that. And on the subject of the press conference, they've faxed us some talking points."

  I looked at the two-page fax. It wasn't signed, of course. These "suggestions" never are, and the person who's answering media questions is supposed to sound spontaneous.

  In any case, Kate seemed to have run out of old friends, so we got on the elevator and rode down in silence.

  Out in the parking lot, on the way to the car, she said to me, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

  "No, it wasn't. In fact, let's go back and do it again."

  "Are you having a problem today?"

  "Not me."

  We got in the car and pulled out onto Wilshire Boulevard. She asked me, "Is there anything special you'd like to see?"

  "New York."

  "How about one of the movie studios?"

  "How about your old apartment? I'd like to see where you lived."

  "That's a good idea. Actually, I rented a house. Not far from here."

  So, we drove through West Hollywood, which looked like an oka
y place, except everything was made of concrete and was painted in pastel colors, sort of like square Easter eggs.

  Kate drove into a pleasant suburban neighborhood and drove past her former house, which was a small Spanish stucco job. I said, "Very nice."

  We continued on to Beverly Hills, where the houses got bigger and bigger, then we cruised Rodeo Drive, and I caught a whiff of Giorgio perfume coming from the store of the same name. That stuff would keep a dead body from stinking.

  We parked right on Rodeo Drive, and Kate took me to a nice open-air restaurant for lunch.

  We lingered over lunch, as they say, with no appointments, no agenda, and not a worry in the world. Well, maybe a few.

  I didn't mind killing time because I was killing it near to where Asad Khalil was last heard from. I kept waiting for Kate's phone to ring, hopefully with some news that would keep me from flying to Washington. I hated Washington, of course, and with good reason. My animus toward California was mostly illogical, and I was feeling ashamed of myself for my prejudices against a place I'd never been to. I said to Kate, "I can see why you'd like it here."

  "It's very seductive."

  "Right. Does it ever snow?"

  "In the mountains. You can go from beach to mountains to desert in a few hours."

  "How would you dress for a day like that?"

  Chuckle, chuckle.

  The California Chardonnay was good, and we slurped up a full bottle of it, disqualifying us from driving for a while. I paid the tab, which wasn't too bad, and we walked around downtown Beverly Hills, which is actually quite nice. I noticed, however, that the only pedestrians were hordes of Japanese tourists snapping pictures and making videotapes.

  We walked and window-shopped. I pointed out to Kate that her ketchup-colored blazer and black slacks were getting a bit rumpled, and offered to buy her a new outfit. She said, "Good idea. But it will cost you a minimum of two thousand dollars on Rodeo Drive."

  I cleared my throat and replied, "I'll buy you an iron."

  She laughed.

  I looked at a few dress shirts in the windows and the prices looked like area codes. But sport that I am, I bought a bag of homemade chocolates, which we ate while we walked. As I say, there weren't many pedestrians, so I wasn't surprised to discover that the Japanese tourists were videotaping Kate and me. I said to her, "They think you're a movie star."